


So Far

by ItsyBitsyAnansi



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Another Glenn and Daryl are together pre-canon fic, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, I promise, Multi, POV Glenn Rhee, Plotty, Will mostly follow Canon, With A Twist, because I'm weak for those
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29798379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsyBitsyAnansi/pseuds/ItsyBitsyAnansi
Summary: "The tears come every night, regular as the tide, and Glenn doesn’t fight them, allowing himself fully to shake with less than silent sobs, and dutifully wiping his face every morning before emerging to help make breakfast"OrYet another fic featuring together-pre-canon Darlenn! They are separated soon after the apocalypse begins, and must find their way back to one another. This is definitely loosely inspired by others I have read, but with my own twist. I promise it is not as angsty as the summary makes it seem!
Relationships: Daryl Dixon & Merle Dixon & Glenn Rhee, Daryl Dixon/Glenn Rhee
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	1. When smoke fills the room

Glenn knew from the moment the evacuation started that nothing was ever going to go back to normal again. It was the oddest thing, really. Nothing about his life up to that point had been anything worthy of note, either to him or to anyone else. Normal job which he liked parts of, normal family who he talked with on holidays, normal husband who wasn’t perfect but was loved, and normal dreams of settling down one day to a life not much different from the one he currently led. He had no reason to believe things would change, because they never had. And yet. When the first warnings came through the news and the military had rushed them to a temporary shelter, and later, when all communication with the outside went down, and even when the shelter had finally fallen to hoards of the rotting, vicious, impossible beings, Glenn had known. There was no denial, or time wasted on should-have-beens. Glenn just knew, and he kept himself alive by staying ahead of the curve, always ready to cut his losses and move on. That wasn’t to say Glenn was cold, or that he wasn’t sentimental. The opposite really, though sentimentality could easily get you killed in this new world. It was to say that Glenn was a pragmatist, and knew not to kid himself about reality. He knew to make your peace with it as quickly as possible so that you could then try to make the best of it.

Weeks down the line, and he wasn’t surprised he was still alive. He knew he moved fast, knew the area, and had quickly picked up a knack for avoiding walkers in such a way that he never once had to get out a weapon. Everyone always seemed so surprised when he shared what job he’d had in the old world, commenting that they’d have guessed he was army, or even a park ranger. Commenting on how calm he was during times of panicked running, commenting on how resourceful he was when at a dead end, commenting on how much energy he seemed to have after days of sleeplessness. As though pizza delivery men weren’t used to making the most of what they had, and making due without the rest. 

It was his honest confidence in his own abilities that made Glenn feel alright about joining Shane’s group when he found them. They looked like they could use a hand, with as many kids as there were, unable to hunt, and hunkered in the hills. His skills could be used for something good in this world. Besides, having a place to sleep where his back got watched was certainly worth the risk of all the extra supply runs. 

If it was only after he was sure this group was safe for him, weeks after joining, that he began to break down and cry at night -- well, keeping emotions locked down tight until they could be safely dealt with was only common sense. The tears come every night, regular as the tide, and Glenn doesn’t fight them, allowing himself fully to shake with less than silent sobs, and dutifully wiping his face every morning before emerging to help make breakfast. It is to be expected after all, after the loss of everything he knew -- everything he loved. Glenn thinks that it was probably the tent sleeping bag that does it. That, and the sense of routine which had finally settled in. In all of the time before now, he had been on the move, needed to keep not just the day’s tasks in his head, but be constantly planning months in advance as well. Things right now, with the repetition, and the relief from constant planning, and finally a bed to sleep in that’s not some dirty clothes, are almost normal. Almost. Really, compared to his old life there’s only one thing missing. Daryl.

God, what he’d do to get Daryl back. All of the things he should have done as soon as the evacuation came, and Daryl wasn’t back from work yet. Plays little games with himself, imagining what he would have done differently at each point if Darly had been with him, supporting him. The thoughts aren’t productive, aren’t doing anything but make him feel like the world is ending, but still they come. He lets them.

In a sea of unpredictable and previously impossible events, people tended to become a little more jaded, and a little less easily shocked. Even so, when Merle shows up at their camp one sunny afternoon while he helps sort supplies, Glenn is more taken aback then he has been in months. Years. No sense of foreboding had darkened the quiet afternoon before Merle’s sudden appearance, dragging a deer behind him, and Glenn is so shocked he can’t do anything but sit down right there in the dirt. The commotion in the camp distracts from his position momentarily, but Glenn is quickly pulled into discussion with Shane after Merle points him out, claiming the chinaman’ll vouch for him. Glenn is calm as he answers Shane, mind too far away to be anything but politely detached. Yes, he knows Merle. No, not very well. Yes, Merle most likely hunted that himself, he’s a crackshot, and a good woodsman besides. Yes, he should be safe around the women and children. Had a bit of a temper though. The whole time his thoughts are racing. Is Daryl-? But no, they hadn't been anywhere near each other, nor in contact last he’d heard. Maybe Daryl’s survival sensibilities would be similar to Merle’s, and also lead him to this quarry? No, there was far too much ground to cover, this was merely an impossible coincidence. And one impossible event made others less, not more likely. 

Merle cornered Glenn only one time, on the evening he arrived. His opening was a brusque, “He dead?” that actually betrayed a bit of emotion. 

“Maybe. I don’t know, he was in another part of the city when it all went down. I tried looking for a while, and been here since the rest was bombed.” The words come easy to Glenn, short as they are, and his response feels almost rehearsed, like he was just waiting to be asked by someone, anyone. 

Merle does him the courtesy of grunting before he turns back to the tent he set up on the edge of the camp.

Just like Glenn had known the instant things began to go to shit, knew immediately that it was serious, Glenn also knew which members of the group to stay away from. Which were dangerous. It wasn’t deep in his bones or anything like that. It was obvious. This is a person who will like you in job interviews, this is a person who won’t tip, and this is a person you steer well clear of no matter what. There was already one member of the group who fell into this category -- Carol’s asshole of a husband -- , so it wasn’t too hard to adjust when Merle came. Staying away from him and his side of camp was as instinctive and easy as it had ever been, before, and Merle seemed just as happy to ignore him. That didn’t mean his presence wasn’t difficult, beyond the obvious reasons. After Merle showed up, it was that extra layer of normality, that slippage into old habits that only acted as a foil to the one part of his life that would never be normal again. Worse, the ease of how he interacted with Merle, sidestepping each other adroitly, only highlighted how normal Glenn felt, day to day. 

He hadn’t changed, really, since everything had gone down an impossible. Hadn’t gotten a new lease on life, reoriented his priorities, gained a new understanding of love. The life he’d had, before, hadn’t been easy. He had prioritized work, but only inasmuch as it could get him a safe place to stay and food on the table. He had known that whatever the future held for him, the only thing he could do was plan as best he could, work as hard as he could, and know that things sometimes fell apart. Loving Daryl had been hard work, of course it was, but he had never taken what they had for granted, or thought it was any less than what it was. 

Glenn had regrets of course. They haunted him everynight without fail. Wished he had done this small task, or said these last words to Daryl or to his mother or to anyone he’d known. But as he lay in his tent night after night, sad and aching and angry and determined, he felt like the same man he had been all his life. He knew he would get past this. Did that make him a bad person? Glenn would lie awake at night, chasing himself in circles. Did he love Daryl any less because he was still himself, independently as well as together? He felt like shit, at a loss and aching, and would for the foreseeable future. Maybe forever. But he was also moving on in a way. There was no trial by fire, or epiphany he had as his tears grew less frequent over the weeks. This was Glenn’s burden, and he was strong enough to carry it with him wherever he needed to go.

Glenn hadn’t bonded with any particular member of the group, but he felt fond towards Andrea and T-dog, and even more so towards Dale, and sometimes sat by their fires in the evenings. They were happy to talk about most anything, the three of them, and Glenn sometimes felt as though he was losing the conversation a bit when they really got going. It was good though. Comforting. Daryl would have liked all of them, or at least Andrea. Another thing that hadn’t changed about Glenn when Daryl vanished from his life was how often he talked about him. There was no opening up period needed, the habit was already there. Little comments of, 'well, my husband said', or 'Daryl loves those things too', or worse yet, the 'we hated that', or 'we’d been planning to', that go unamended. With Dale and his lost wife, these comments felt more natural, but all three of them were understanding, and never pressed for more. Glenn was feeling as settled as he thought he ever would be in such circumstances, beginning to tentatively suspect this might be sustainable. 

Until he finds Deputy Rick Grimes in Atlanta.


	2. Cold Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Covers the two days after finding Rick. Y'all know what's coming

Glenn was thinking straight when he rescued Rick from the herd of walkers he had attracted. The others, like Andrea and Dale, asked him afterwards if he was crazy, if he had thought about the consequences, if he was in his right state of mind. 

But it didn’t matter how it looked on the outside. Glenn knew himself. It was a dumb move, yes. Dangerous, suicidal even. But no fugue had overcome him, his body didn’t move without permission. 

Glenn knew exactly what he was doing when he plopped himself right in that pile of shit just to save one stranger's life. He had been pretty sure he was going to make it. The risk was calculated.

Even now, huddling in a department store, walkers minutes from killing them all, Glenn continued to calculate. To think his way through the paths, the buildings, the walkers’ behavior. To think of some way out of this. The thinking, unlike the action, was instinctive. It was who he’d always been. Calculated risks weren’t new to the apocalypse. 

Why else would he have agreed to marry Daryl?

And there it was again, that look when he said he’d been a pizza delivery man. 

Glenn sometimes wondered if he was crazy all along, when the ending of the world felt so normal to him. 

He didn’t feel crazy. 

Not like Merle, at any rate. Merle, who’d had to stay back and hunt because they were always low on fresh meat these days. Merle, who’d blown his fucking lid at the news, throwing his gun to the ground and tackling a surprised Shane. Merle who’d hissed and spit in a sleeper hold, beginning to literally foam at the mouth before finally passing out. Glenn wondered where he got his seemingly endless supply of drugs, because he certainly wasn’t supplying the man. Glenn wondered what they’d do if Merle ever overdosed. Nothing probably. 

Daryl would have known what to do. Would have done something even if he didn’t.

It was long past dark when he finally arrived at the quarry, but Merle’s tent remained as dark and silent as it had been that morning, so he must still be passed out. Glenn entertained no thoughts of going over and checking on him, but hoped that he was doing okay.

The news that Rick’s family had been here all along was nearly one coincidence too many. The chances too astronomical. But truth was stranger than fiction, Glenn reminded himself, while pushing down the intrusive hope that one more impossibility increased his chances of a miracle. The world didn’t work that way. Not before, and not now. 

After all the hubbub and weeping, Rick made some noise about going back for a duffel of guns he’d left behind the night before. After some discussion, Rick and Shane drive off at first light, hoping to prioritize speed and stealth over the protection a larger raiding party might bring. The two of them seem like they have a lot to work out about Lori anyway, and could use the privacy of the drive up. The camp remains relatively peaceful following Rick’s departure. The previous day had been a close call for everyone involved, and no-one seems tempted to stray far from camp. There’s a small disturbance as a man Glenn doesn’t know well begins incessantly digging, but he’s left alone to his task eventually. 

Rick and Shane return even earlier than planned, just past midday, claiming they’d sped the whole way back chased by some gang who’d been eyeing up the duffel. Although Rick seems shocked, those sorts of stories are only getting more common. As they made a clean getaway, the excitement quickly dulls, and most camp members drift away back to their own tasks. 

When the walkers attack that night, Merle still hasn’t been seen around camp in well over 24 hours. Glenn had thought he might actually have gone off to hunt. He had hoped that was what he was doing, and not long drowned in his own vomit, anyway. 

That hope is proved incorrect when that night, as the screams begin, Merle appears from his tent in a swirl of deadly intent. The first shout rings out from Rick, sitting dejectedly away from Lori’s fire, and facing the woods. Although everyone turns to look, the walkers are spilling out of the woods faster than anyone can make a run for it. In moments they are surrounded, fighting for their lives with whatever weapon is within reach. Glenn has barely registered Merle’s presence on one end of the camp before he’s sprinting through the middle of to the other side, laying waste right and left as he goes with heavy, savage blows. He fights like he did with Shane last, fights like a berserker. There’s an axe in one hand and a dagger in the other. There’s a wail from nearby, shriller than the rest. Glenn can’t see if Merle’s accidentally hit a person or not, distracted as he is by the walker currently trying to eat him. The way Merle fights, closing in quickly, and taking them down with a single wide-swung blow is more than anyone else can -- or is willing to -- attempt, and in short order Merle is sprinting around, picking up the pieces from others’ struggles, wading directly into the herd of walkers. Early on, Glenn hears Amy’s scream, and then Merle's wild bellows follow. They’re probably all right. No time to think.

Glenn has some ability in a fight, picked up over his years of knowing the Dixons, but uppercuts and grappling moves don’t do much against a swarm like this. Dale’s calls to the trailer are probably the only reason they survive. That, and Rick’s guns. After the fight, when things have settled down, Glenn will shudder to think of what might have become of them if Rick hadn’t awoken. 

The fight with the walkers is exhausting, terrifying chaos, but so is the wait for more to come. When the wait is over, the search through the dead for their own people, haphazard and with no light is also exhausting, terrifying chaos. When that is over, hampered by the walker guts coating every surface in sight, the burying begins.

They made use of the ready-dug holes, just barely enough to contain the defeated walkers in mass graves. In the dark, unknowing if more were coming, it had seemed wiser than burning them and risking the smell attracting another herd. The work had been disgusting, and difficult in the low light.

Rick said it was better to have it done sooner so that they could walk through the camp without the fear of one suddenly reanimating and biting their ankles. They had enough men to watch the perimeter, and take out the stragglers while they worked. Shane disagreed, but acquiesced reluctantly. That was beginning to be a common occurrence. Lori didn’t care either way, as she wasn’t doing the work. 

Merle, surprisingly, pitched in for lookout duty, but seemed twitchy and angry as he stood at the boundary of the woods. Wasn’t he always. Weren’t they all.

Glenn worked with Andrea, who refused to stray further than a few feet from her sister. Apparently it had been quite a close call. Amy had been armed when she exited the trailer, warned by Rick’s call, but hadn’t been expecting a walker from the other side of camp to approach from behind. Andrea, following closely down the stairs, had shot it barely six inches from Amy’s shoulder. Glenn could understand her aversion to leaving Amy, and stuck closely by the two of them, reassured equally by their presence. 

When T-dog came over and joined them, only an hour before dawn, he shared a very surprising story. Merle Dixon, known primarily by the others for his filthy racist mouth, had rushed in between a group that had cornered T-dog, and then tossed over his own knife. T-dog was happy to be alive of course, and more than grateful, but kept wondering aloud to the three of them, “What the hell goes on in his racist head? Did he not recognize me? He color blind at night?” and making other amusing guesses at Merle’s motivations. 

Glenn wasn’t too surprised. Merle’s bark had always been bigger than his bite, and he’d learned very quickly, years ago, when told in no uncertain terms that Glenn was not to be referred to as ‘china man’.

Dale stayed cooped up in his trailer, claiming he was too shaken up to do the heavy work. That he was an old man, and needed to look after his heart. Glenn believed him, as Dale had never been the type to wriggle out of dangerous tasks. He hoped Dale got a good rest and took care of himself. Lord knew what was going to come next, so Dale should snatch every peaceful moment he could get.

In the morning, things look equally gruesome. The only relief brought is the official news that no-one has died. Everyone survived the night. It’s astonishing, nearly unbelievable. But they had had enough people up and armed to fend off the fervor of the initial attack, and then remained holed up for the remaining few hours to dawn. It paid off. The strategy had worked, and unlike the hoards of used-to-be-people that had tried to drag them to the other side, they had made it through.

In light of the strong front Rick had shown from the very beginning of the attack, his decisions are swift and nearly unanimously followed.

Rick wants to go to the CDC. Shane disagrees, but reluctantly acquiesces. Lori seems not to care. 

One family, who Glenn has spent barely any time with at all, wants to split off and try to find family at a military base. No one tries to stop them. In this world, more kids are a burden, and reluctant members of a party even worse. 

Glenn climbs into the trailer with his friends when they set off just past dawn, and is surprised when Merle follows behind, leaving his motorcycle in the bed of the truck. He just settles down quietly in a corner, seemingly passed out though, so no one bothers him. Better not to poke the sleeping bear.

It’s midmorning when Merle begins to shake and moan, groaning as he clutches his hand to himself. Glenn and Andrea, who’d been taking turns trying to guess T-dog’s real name, look at each other in worry and creep closer. Glenn is the one who finally closes the distance, grabs Merle’s clumsily wrapped hand, and pulls cloth aside to see what’s wrong.

It’s a walker bite.

Clear as day, all human teeth, outlined in bloody red on a hand that was swollen and purpled. Some sort of tourniquet has been tied at the wrist, but Glenn doesn’t think lack of blood flow is what’s caused the discoloration.

He calls for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! The plot of this fic is still very much in the air, so let me know what you think: questions, comments, suggestions, etc. 
> 
> Hope it's okay so far!


	3. The Caliber of a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As usual, Glenn does what has to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take not that I have raised the rating, as this chapter does get a little bit gory! It's all very canon-typical, but I thought I'd warn y'all. Please do not read if that disturbs you!

When the caravan pulls to halt to discuss things, and an unconscious Merle is dragged outside to be inspected, Glenn doesn’t say anything. 

They don’t know if Merle will even wake up before death, they don’t know how long ago he was bitten, and they don’t think they can kill him, defenseless and without an opinion on it. Glenn doesn’t say anything.

They need to keep moving, can’t afford to wait fully exposed on the highway. Not with the condition the trailer is in, unable to go more than 10 miles an hour, or maneuver quickly around the sea of cars. Not with their limited ammunition. You never know when a herd could move through. 

Merle is a danger, can’t possibly stay in close quarters with the others when he could turn at any moment. The horror of being trapped in that trailer with a walker is one that doesn’t bear thinking about. He has to be left behind. It’s necessary, but even so, no one seems too broken up about it. Glenn still says nothing.

It’s only when the others are discussing whether to leave supplies -- in some vain hope that Merle wakes and lives more than a few hours before succumbing -- that Glenn speaks up.

“I’ll stay,” he says firmly, already decided. He doesn’t think fever will take long, even so shallowly on the hand. He doesn’t think Merle will live to see tonight.

But. This is a thing that Glenn can do for Daryl. And there are so few of those left. 

It just makes sense. 

Over all of the protests, and questions, and reasons why he shouldn’t, Glenn speaks again.

“He’s my brother-in-law. He’s family.”

And really, what else is there to say? Andrea and Amy. Carol and Sophia. Rick and Lori and Carl, and even Shane. They would do anything for family. Have done anything.

They’ll leave him behind, and carry on, because that’s what’s best for their families. And he will stay behind in memory of his own. Glenn doesn’t think that the apocalypse really changed much about the world. The difficulty of a choice had always been relative, and in this moment, the decision was an easy one for all. 

Their goodbyes were tearful but swift. Sophia, and even Carl came up to hug him and wish him luck. Andrea and Dale were impotently angry, but T-dog was warmly understanding. Amy and Jacqui watched on with hurt eyes, but didn’t approach. 

Rick and the group promised to leave signs of where they were going, to look for him if they were ever headed back this way. Gave him maps with the forts they were thinking of going to. Everyone knew that staying by the open road was suicide, and, one way or another, Glenn would be long gone from this spot in a day or two. Still, they promised and planned as they left. 

Supplies for a few days and the motorcycle were soon all Glenn had left in the world. 

That, and his dying brother-in-law.

The next hour passed uneventfully, with Glenn on high alert beside Merle. Every groan and twitch seemed to portend the awakening of a walker, but each time he settled back down.

Glenn knew, long before this horrible choice was upon him, that he could kill a living person. Knew that if it was them or him, him or them, that he wasn’t just going to give in. But this was different. This was a vigil, not an execution, Glenn was holding for Merle. When his knife finally fell, it would be onto a walker, only long after the body of Daryl’s brother had gone cold. 

For an hour, he waits.

It is understandable, then, that when Merle suddenly sits bolt upright, lunging for him, he is not ready with his knife. It is a good thing, in the end, but in that instant, Glenn’s heart starts rabbiting, faster than it has ever beat before. He genuinely thinks that he might be having a heart attack. Merle’s eyes are wide and manic, but clearly alive, and he clutches at Glenn’s shoulders as he gains his bearings. 

“Fuck. What the hell happened.”

Glenn, still shaking as hard as Merle, can only clumsily try to pry Merle’s grip away, taking special care with the bandaged hand. 

“You were, um. You were bitten. Do you not remember?” 

Merle looks at him uncomprehendingly, then his eyes widen even further, darting to the swollen hand, which must hurt like little else. 

“Jesus fucking christ! Are you fucking joking me right now?!” Glenn can’t tell if he’s asking that seriously, and wisely remains silent as Merle’s outburst continues. “When the hell am I gonna catch a fucking break? And where the hell is everybody? Where’s my stuff?”

“They dropped us off once we realized you were gonna. Um.” Glenn isn’t sure how to end that sentence, so he leaves it there. It’s pointless anyway, as Merle is already ignoring him, rifling through the bags of supplies around them until he finds a knife. It’s bigger than the one Glenn currently holds, wickedly curved at the tip and serrated near the handle. Merle uses it to cut away the dirty bandages, leaving only the tightly tied tourniquet around his wrist, which he begins to inspect, before cursing again.

“Come here boy, and grab that rope.” Merle gestures to a spot about four inches above his wrist. “Tie it tight, right here.” When Glenn fails to move, frozen in place, Merle explodes again, screaming, “What the goddamn hell is wrong with you!? Do I have to do everything myself? Move your fucking ass!” His face is starting to go red, and both of them are panting from the heat of the day and the adrenaline racing through them. 

Glenn does as he’s told, tying the rope off on Merle’s forearm as tightly as he can. He can’t believe Merle is actually awake again. Nothing seems real. His hands just won’t stop shaking.

When that’s done, Merle spends another minute inspecting his arm, turning it this way and that. Finally, he turns to Glenn.

“Go get me the road flare from the bottom left bike bag, and then get me a heavy but small rock. Something that looks good for smashing”

“Smashing?” Glenn asks, trying to figure out what it could be for. He feels like he’s thinking through fog, not quite as quick to come to the solution Merle clearly has.

“Am I speaking english? Go get a rock! We need to break the bone before we start cutting if we’re gonna do this above the joint. It’s not like we have a saw around here, and I don’t feel like bleeding to death while you figure out how to hack through.”

They are so, so exposed, ten feet from the road, crouched under a tree. If Merle keeps shouting like this, it’s not the bite that will kill him, but Glenn himself. But he scrambles up and goes to retrieve the items, feeling the back of his neck prickle at the thought of all the walkers that could be coming towards them at this very instant. He tries to comfort himself with the knowledge that if any were in hearing range they would probably have shown up by now, but he knows how slowly some of them move. Probably leggless, dragging themselves under the cars by their elbows towards the two of them right this instant. 

He hurries back.

It’s only when Merle sets off the road flare, propping the fizzing end against the blade of Glenn’s abandoned knife that Glenn understands what’s going on. It hits him in an instant, and he sees the plan with perfect clarity

There is no more time to waste, no more time to hesitate. This needs to be done quickly, and cleanly. Plans, he can do. Deal with the consequences later.

Glenn moves into position, hefting the rock in his hands while Merle braces his arm on another below. “Why the forearm?” he asks, merely curious now, not resisting. “Wouldn’t the wrist or hand bones be easier to cut through?”

“Yeah, but it’s been hours since I was bit. The infection could have spread. Can’t risk it.” Merle grunts, before picking up a stick to bite down on. One more deep breath, and then he nods to Glenn.

There’s no hesitation when Glenn brings the rock down on Merle’s arm. This is his job now, and he’s always done his jobs, no matter how little he’s enjoyed it. I should have been a surgeon, he thinks, a little hysterically.

In the end, Merle is the one who saws off his own hand, not because Glenn loses his nerve, but because Merle doesn’t trust him to do it quick enough. Instead, Glenn hovers, waiting with bated breath for the instant the serrated knife goes through the last bit of forearm, and he can slam his own cherry red blade into place. Sweat pours profusely down the both of them, making grips slippery, as the sun blazes overhead, nearing its zenith. It’s hard to tell through all the blood and gristle when the job is done, but Glenn hopes it’s really all the way off when Merle drops his knife and collapses back.

Merle screams through the stick, back arching, when Glenn presses the blade down onto hissing flesh, but he maintains pressure. How long are you supposed to do this? One second? Ten? Maybe it’s like searing steak. Thirty seconds on one side is seared through a couple of centimeters, so ten should probably do it here.

When he removes the blade, the skin is charred and still bloody looking, but nothing is gushing, so it’ll have to be good enough for now. Merle is passed out again, and he has no idea how long that’s going to last, so he just starts packing up the supplies, cleaning blood off the knives as best he can with dirt and grass, and putting out the road flare on the asphalt like one would a cigarette. 

Their first priority for now is getting away from here. There’s no way a couple of walkers hadn’t heard Merle’s scream, so they needed to go before they brought more with them. Somewhere minimally protected would be nice, and out of the sun even nicer, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, so he’d take anywhere that wasn’t this exact spot. 

The problem with making a getaway quickly appears when Glenn realizes he has no way to move Merle. Getting the motorcycle over, and dragging Merle onto it is simple, if tiring. But there is absolutely no configuration that lets Glenn and a completely limp Merle ride it anywhere. 

Merle cannot be propped, perched, or balanced. When Glenn -- in a fit of seeming genius -- attempts to tie a partially upright Merle to his torso, so he has free hands to shoot or drive, all that it results in is them both being dragged off the bike by Merle’s relentless dead weight. The bike is far too small to allow the man to be laid across it, limbs sprawling every which way and into the wheels, even if that didn’t leave Merle completely vulnerable. It would almost be funny, if it weren’t so serious. Up until that moment, Glenn had been half hoping they might be able to catch up to the group at the CDC, as they were only two hours ahead. But Merle wasn’t waking up, and they couldn’t drive on the road, and they couldn’t stay here. 

Well. If there wasn’t any other way, then there wasn’t any other way. 

Glenn makes sure to leave a message written in paint on a car nearby for the caravan. He picks up the lukewarm hand when they’re ready to go, stares long and hard at the once familiar fingers gone puffy and purple. There's absolutely no reason to take it with, but it feels wrong to just leave it here in the open. Should he bury it? But there’s no time. Something about this moment feels important, or the hand symbolic, but he shakes off the odd feeling and drops the hand back down to the base of the tree. Remnants of an old life, an old world.

Glenn is more determined then resigned as he finally starts pushing the bike into the woods, Merle and all their bags aboard for the excruciatingly slow journey.


	4. Can't see the forest

Glenn continues half pushing, half dragging the bike though the dense greenery for what feels like hours. Unsure how far from the road he should go, Glenn decides to keep walking as long as he is able, just to be safe. Unfortunately exhaustion makes him decide to settle for the day only a few miles from the road, when the beginnings of an upward incline make his weakened arms tremble uncontrollably, and his feet slip out from under him. It’s frustrating, but clear that no more progress will be made before he gets some proper sleep. When was the last time he got some of that? Night before last? Or the night before that? His head throbs just behind his eyes, and his tongue feels tacky and unwieldy in his mouth. Definitely time to careful tip the bike over and try to sleep. The sun is high, and the presence of squirrels nearby allow Glenn the reassurance he needs to actually let his eyes slip shut. 

When next he awakes, the sun is no longer visible in the sky, but the air is thick with evening warmth and a diffuse light remains still filtering through the tall trees. His headache has almost entirely abated, but he still feels wrung out. Glenn simply lays there, not even bothering to sit up. What’s the point?

What would Daryl do here? Start a fire? Is there even a point, with nothing to cook? Or set up shelter?

Glenn doesn’t move. A lethargy has settled over him, completely unrelated to the nap he just took. It’s a deeper lethargy. The kind that descends when all the decisions have been made and their consequences wrought.

He doesn’t want to be here. 

Separated from those few friends he’d managed to make. No plan. No proper supplies. An injured person to take care of. 

But he doesn’t regret it.

It isn’t regret Glenn feels as he stares up at the darkening canopy above. There’s nothing he would have done differently, could possibly have chosen. It was an inevitability he would end up here. 

Glen sometimes wishes he could give up his past self. Say “Okay. The world has ended, and the old Glenn is dead. New Glenn is all that’s left”, and create a break between the two times. Become some sort of fucking badass who took what he needed, and sacrificed those he didn’t. Who actually made it to the end of the story.

But there was no new Glenn. Family mattered. Daryl mattered. Not murdering mattered. Making friends mattered. Not putting his friends in danger mattered. Staying alive, even as hard as it was, mattered.

Glenn had saved Merle and left behind the little he knew because that was just how it was. Just what he had to do.

But.

Sometimes he wished he could have changed as abruptly as the world had. It’d certainly let him feel something besides… trapped. This moment, resigned and hopeless, might not have been inevitable, if he just gave less of a shit.

He’d gotten too comfortable at the quarry. Continued depending on others, same as he used to. Now he felt like a checkers piece moving on a chess board, moves pitifully finite. “Well,” Glenn thought with grim amusement, “At least I can feel self-pity,” and got up to go check on Daryl’s brother.

The light is nearly gone, and so Glenn doesn’t actually realize at first that Merle may be in worse trouble than he realized. The fever and thrashing had stopped soon after the amputation, and after noon had passed with no further signs, Glenn had assumed they had successfully managed to stop the transformation. The fever, he had seen, and knew intimately. Merle’s hand, when he grabs it to roll the man over from the bike, is clammy the touch, and frighteningly cool, almost chillier than the air around them. Glenn starts in surprise when he clasps the curled up fingers, and rushes to roll Merle over. What he sees is blue lips and pale skin, icy cold all over. The chest doesn’t appear to rise.

Glenn doesn’t know what to do. Is Merle dead? Is that possible? Could he really just have died when Glenn didn’t even know, silently in his sleep? Without screams and blood?

The thought was fantastical, impossible. A natural death. 

If it could be called that. 

Well, if he really was dead, Glenn would need to do something with him quickly. Called to action for what feels like the hundredth time in a matter of days, Glenn rises to the occasion yet again, and doesn’t hesitate. He straightens Merle up fully, not sure what to do next. Take his supplies? Bury him? It suddenly occurs to Glenn to take the pulse. It’s only been a few minutes since he went over to Merle, but he feels so profoundly stupid for not thinking of it right away. Of course, he also feels idiotic as he reaches down to hold Merle’s arm, and finds he has started to pull up the one which is missing both hand and wrist, bandaged thickly. Quickly switching, Glenn places his fingers and waits, clutching the wrist too tightly, and sweat sliding down the back of his own neck. There. It's weak, and thready, and almost harder to catch because it’s so quick. Okay. Still alive.

Glenn allows himself a single slow exhale, and squeezes his eyes shut against the prick of tears before he begins checking Merle over for another wound, hands continuing with their damnable shaking. 

Merle seems heavier than he had that morning, but Glenn tells himself it’s just his own tiredness. After Merle has been checked over, and divested also of the many knives stashed around his body, Glenn sits back on his heels and rubs his hair roughly. It’s sticky and crusted with walker blood because the camp hadn’t had time for a proper wash at the quarry before heading out this morning.

This morning. Only yesterday morning, things had been halfway okay.

Glenn stands and goes to Merle’s feet, planning on dragging him further into the little clearing he’d been napping in. As soon as Merle’s legs are raised, his torso also tilting up, Merle’s head tilts to the side, and he vomits, still without waking. Glenn wastes no time in rushing to turn him to his side, but the incident only adds to Glenns frustration. Merle’s lips remain bluish, but he doesn’t think he’s choking. He doesn’t know what’s happening, and doesn’t know what to do, or even it’s related to today’s amputation or to the bite. 

Is this what withdrawal looks like? Glenn has never dealt with Merle detoxing, as Daryl would always drive up to take care of Merle himself. Can withdrawal even happen after only a day?

Now that the sun has set, the temperature has dropped slightly, and although he still feels plenty warm, Glenn decides to start a fire. The underbrush should be thick enough to hide the light, and perhaps they’d been left some MREs he could heat by the fire. It doesn’t take too long -- he’d often gone camping, before -- and soon he has Merle set up by the fire, propped against a tree. Glenn reasons that heat is probably good to combat cold, tucking a spare shirt around Merle’s shoulders and feeling foolish and impotent. 

Once all his tasks are accomplished, Glenn lets himself sink again into sleepy lethargy, thinking about what to do in the morning, always planning ahead, but without any real urgency. They could simply stay put here for a while. No point in being on the move for the sake of it when it puts them in unknown territory. On the other hand, supplies were slim, and some sort of water to wash in would be appreciated. He’d need to scout around on all sides in the morning, see how far they were from surrounding farms and roads. Merle sleepily cracks open his eyes a few times over the following hours, but doesn’t stir beyond that until Glenn himself has long fallen asleep, given up on Merle recovering anytime soon.

He’s awoken by sharp curses from across the embers of the burned down fire, Merle a hunched shape in the pre-dawn gloom, making no attempts to muffle his angry words. No surprise there, although Glenn is glad Merle is finally conscious. He doesn’t know if Merle sees he’s awake, but stays silent anyway, closing his eyes, and hoping to rest up a little more for the long day ahead. Better they get used to sleeping on a staggered schedule anyway, as setting up a nightwatch will be prudent.

Merle’s curses die down after some more shifting and rustling, and his voice next sounds from much closer to Glenn than before, just to his right. 

“Guess you haven’t dumped me and run yet, then. I’m surprised. Too weak to drag my ass away, or did you just chicken out entirely and decide to steal all my knives?” A snort, as derisive as they come. “You always were such a goddamn pussy.”

Glenn doesn’t respond, merely clenching his eyes shut and breathing deeply. Daryl would have told him not to take that lying down, would have fought, would have socked Merle in his dirty mouth so that they could deal with it right then and there. Glenn doesn’t rise to the jibe, knows how to pick his own battles. Merle, of course, takes that as an invitation to continue.

“Where the hell are we anyway? This don’t look like no goddam CDC. You finally got kicked out of your little gossip girls group?” Here he gives a gravelly little chuckle, clearly cracking himself up. “What’d you do, anyway? They finally realize you’re lacking some backbone? Some loyalty? Once a coward, always a coward, eh?”

Glenn puts his hands over his ears. It’s childish, but honestly, they’re well beyond who’s going to be the bigger person. He can’t wait for it to lighten enough for him to get the hell out of here, at least for a few hours.

Merle is relentless, his antagonism seemingly perfectly happy to go on without fuel. 

“Aww, come on now, princess. Lighten up a little, everyone needs to hear the truth sometimes. Just tell me. Come on. Hey. Hey! Princess! Hey! Princess, where the fuck are we!?” With each word out of his mouth the volume rises, until he is shouting, and Glenn fears he’s bringing walkers right to them. 

Without thinking he tears his hands off his ears and darts them over Merle’s mouth, gripping hard. 

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, “are you trying to get us killed? We’re only a few miles from the highway, you’re gonna attract a herd.”

At this, Merle’s eyebrows rise in disbelief, and peels off Glenn’s hands with his single remaining one. 

“A few miles? Why were we on the highway anyway? Where are we going?”

Glenn feels his brows furrow in confusion, as he tries to figure out what Merle means. Is he concussed? Is this what amnesia looks like? 

“Why..? We were on the road to go to the CDC. Don’t you remember cutting off your,” Glenn gestures to the bandaged club of a stump, “by the highway? We’re not going anywhere right now, we had to leave the caravan because of you. How’d you get bitten anyway?” Here Glenn starts to feel a little heated, confusion falling to the background. “If you’d just said when you’d first gotten bit, we could have done all of this in camp and wouldn’t have had to be left behind in the middle of nowhere. What were you thinking getting in that van with the kids there?” Glenn glares and leans down into Merle’s space, able to make out his face in the twilight. It is pulled up in an angry snarl, but Glenn doesn’t let that intimidate him, keeping his gaze and voice hard. 

“Oh please, like they wouldn’t have just killed me outright after I got bit. Don’t be stupid. Not everyone believes in your girly sentiments, especially not that fucker Shane.” Merle’s glare falters for a second before he admits, “Not that it would have made a difference. Didn’t know there were no goddam bite when I got on that van, did I?”

“Didn’t know…? How…?” All of a sudden Glenn leans back, disgusted. It’s the end of the world, and it looks like he’s not the only one who hasn’t changed a bit. “You motherfucker. You were high as a fucking kite during the attack, weren’t you? Fuck. You knew we needed you, you knew there was increased walker activity, and you knew you were going hunting soon. I can’t believe this.” Glenn stands, pacing the remnants of the fire, itching to do something. No wonder Merle had been able to fight like that over Amy, relentless, and vicious, and fearless. And here he’d though the man had just spontaneously sprouted a conscience. “Do you even remember us planning to head out? What if you’d turned in the middle of the night in camp because you didn’t even feel you’d been bitten? You’d really just throw all our lives away for a day of fun? I really just can’t believe this.” Glenn can’t stand to be around Merle for another minute longer. The sheer lack of care towards everyone and everything around him. It was sickening. “I’m going scouting. Stay put.” And so saying, he quickly gathers up the backpack with half of their stuff and strides off. He hopes Merle will be gone when he comes back.

Fortunately, when Glenn finds the clearing again in the late afternoon, cooled down a little emotionally, and ready to collapse into sleep, Merle remains. Over the course of the day, Glenn had thought more and more about what to do, and frankly, Glenn’s plans have changed little, even with the revelation of Merle’s spectacular callousness towards human life; His own, or anyone else’s.   
The surrounding area was fairly wooded, with properties dotted throughout, each a low one or two story cabin. Glenn had gone in a massive circle, and found that to the north the cabins started to blend with more suburban and densely packed houses, so he thought they should try and move a little more southwards, while remaining parallel to the road. He hadn’t seen any walkers on the way, which was odd, but hopefully a good sign. Merle would likely be too weak to help with much, but it was probably better that way. He knew his plans would be carried out correctly if he just did everything himself. 

Merle had somehow managed to gather enough fallen branches to start on a little frame, but seemed to be struggling to tie them properly with only one hand. Glenn didn’t bother asking what he was trying to do, and merely slumped to the ground a few yards away, throwing an arm over his eyes. 

“You’re back.” 

Glenn didn’t dignify that with a response. His clothes were soaked with sweat so the soil was sticking to them and making him feel even dirtier, if that was possible. Little twigs and branches dug into his back. If only he’d thought to grab a sleeping bag. 

“Didn’t expect to see you again. Here to steal the rest of my supplies? Or just judge me more. You know, a man’s got a right to handle his own pain. I don’t see where you get off, seeing as you’ve never had a truly a bad day in your fucking life. Maybe your type can get over losing Daryl like that, but I sure as hell can’t. They’re necessary medicine. What are you gonna do, take ‘em off me?”

Glenn takes his arm off his face and sits up. 

“Okay. Sure. Tell me where the drugs are. I’m taking them off you.” 

“What? That’s-”

Glenn doesn’t wait for Merle to move, stepping over to the bike to begin his hunt. He hadn’t found anything suspicious in Merle’s pockets last night, so if he had them, they’d be stashed in one of the compartments there. Merle lurches to his feet, clearly getting ready to charge, but sways dizzily as soon as he’s up, before sitting down heavily. Yeah, definitely better that Glenn do this now, while blood loss is still keeping Merle mostly down. He shuffles through the saddle bags, and in the middle of one he finds a crinkled plastic grocery bag filled with all sorts of prescription names he doesn’t know. Well, better to just toss the lot, he supposed, as there was no way to know which was safe. He clutches it in his hand and prepares to walk off far enough Merle couldn’t know where he’d dumped it, when a voice rings out from behind him, less harsh than it usually was. 

“Wait! Just, wait. Don’t take those, they’re medicine.” A pause, during which Glenn turns around to look at him deadpan. “I mean, real medicine, like, antibiotics and whatnot. The good stuff. Some painkillers too, nothing restricted. I’m probably gonna need ‘em. Just save ‘em for now. ” Merle's voice is coaxing, sickly sweet in comparison to his usual gravelly drawl. Glenn doesn’t even need a moment to think about it, already knows Merle in and out. 

“Well. Guess you’re gonna have to show me where the real stuff is. Otherwise, I just don’t believe you. I’m dumping this in thirty seconds.” 

Merle remains frozen for a moment, then grins widely. Extremely widely, eyes glittering with mirth. Overall, he seems to be handling Glenn’s mission surprisingly well, not making a move to get up beyond his initial lunge. Maybe, just maybe, Merle also thinks getting rid of them is a wise idea. 

Fat chance.

“Well, doll, ain’t you just full of plenty of hidden secrets. Maybe not as big a pussy as I thought.” 

These little jabs are not getting any less annoying, but Glenn is getting used to ignoring them. He keeps his face relaxed and raises a single brow, holding out a hand to gesture to the little clearing. No other hiding spots that he can see exist. 

“Well?”

“Look a little further in the open bag. There should be some loose little tablets on the bottom. That’s them.” He smiles again, disarmingly wide.

Glenn is suspicious, and not afraid to let it show. The pills he finds on the bottom are white and unlabeled, could be anything at all.

“I don’t know Merle. This doesn’t look very convincing. Isn’t heroin or cocaine supposed to be in packets?”

“Heroin!” Merle shrieks, already laughing. “Jesus fuck, boy, I ain’t into that stuff, do I look like it? It’s just some acid, regular tabs. Christ. Heroin! Daryl really liked ‘em innocent, huh?”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” 

Merle rolls his eyes so hard it looks a little painful, and continues to chuckle.

“Just take one. You’ll see pretty soon that it ain’t cocaine, and it ain’t cold meds.”

Glenn might, possibly, have said yes, in the best of circumstances. But here? In the woods, with only knives and a single gun, Merle missing a hand and unable to run? They might as well just commit suicide. He supposes he did ask a fairly dumb question, though. Sighing, he gathers up all what he is sure is all the loose little tabs and turns to go into the woods, giving Merle a hard look beforehand.

He leaves the bag of prescription meds safely tucked back into the bike saddlebag.

Dinner of canned chili is heated up over a little fire when Glenn returns an hour later, and they eat in silence.

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys, I treat this mostly as stress relief and writing exercise, so updates will be sporadic, and I usually post immediately after writing. With that in mind: please point out any glaring errors that are spotted, or just comment in general! I hope someone gets some amount of pleasure from this, as it was fun to write :)


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